


The Jean Genie

by basaltgrrl



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/F, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl





	The Jean Genie

Jean always thought she'd be above this shite. She'd been sure of it; she'd felt like she had a set of bleeding morals, despite all the compromise she'd had to choke down over the years, that she had rules she could live by and that she'd not step across that ridiculous white line--white? What color would she call it, the red of shame or of lust, scarlet like the blazon of a scandalous woman, but then she'd never thought of herself in those terms. She was a pragmatist, first and foremost. If she had to bend, she'd bend, as long as she got what she wanted in the long term.

And what she wanted was...

Oh how ridiculous. Things she'd never thought about in all her early days. Things she'd never have ever thought of if it weren't for the depths of depravity in the streets of Manchester and the sorts of evidence that showed up when one broke up porn rings and surprised men with prostitutes; the sorts of things that she knew went on in Stephen Warren's back rooms, on display for the wealthy and discriminating.

She could appreciate the shape of a woman's arse. She could have more than an academic appreciation of a set of tits. She could leaf through Ray's latest issue of "Just Jugs" and feel a certain heat rise to her face, until the day she decided to stop doing so unless she was safe in her office with the door closed, and not even then, because how ridiculous would it be to have her DI walk through the door and find her salivating over a pair of titties?

It wasn't right.

She'd stood for something. That's what she thought. She'd made DS, and then DI, and she hadn't needed to do any favors, after those early days. She'd made it clear to all the men she worked with that she was as good as them or better, that she could take them down if need be. It didn't matter what they wanted, and they all wanted the same thing, even the friendly ones. Even the ones who had her back. She didn't hold it against them.

Oh, she'd had her share of lovers, but there was never any doubt about where they stood in relation to one another. She never forgot what they were on about. She never forgot what had been expected of her, in the early days. She never wanted to make anyone else feel the way she had; trapped, forced, obligated.

She'd been strong in so many ways. But things changed, didn't they?

Annie Cartwright had all the right qualities; the brilliance and the innate goodness and the fabulous pair of breasts, everything calculated to push Jean's buttons and make her sit up straight and pay attention. When Sam Tyler drew Annie forward, pulled her even closer into Jean's sphere of influence, promoted her to W bleeding DC for chrissakes, well... Lord, it would take a stronger woman than her to keep her eyes averted. Watching the two of them together was sweet torture, and damn it all if they weren't made for each other, hard as it was for them to see it past the monumental obstacle of their own willfulness.

But. Alone at night, glass of whisky, cigarette in hand, Jean allowed herself to imagine. There was no sin in thinking, was there? She pictured Annie at attention in her office. The direct stare, paired with the demure head tilt. The full, womanly figure, the soft curves. Jean drew a breath.

"WPC Cartwright. I need--" What would she ask of her? Well, it was her very own fantasy, no need for realistic demands. "I need you on your knees."

And Annie would do it, would gracefully lower herself to the floor, and Jean would allow her own legs to slide apart, to make space.

Jean would pull her skirt up, rucking it around her hips--blasted feminine clothing, she'd take trousers any day--and would feel her heart skip a beat as she hooked thumbs in her knickers and slid them down. Annie would watch, subtle shifts of expression revealing interest and eagerness.

"I need you to--"

"I know." Annie shuffled forward, put a hand gently on the swell of Jean's white thigh, brushed her thumb across the throbbing center of her universe.

And she would plunder Jean with her tongue, with her teeth. She'd moan against Jean's body, she'd thrust fingers deep into her, have her writhing in place until finally Jean would throw her head back and come with a gasped invective...

Jean sat in her chair, fully clothed, panting along with her imagined self. 

She felt angry at herself, a few minutes later, once she'd heaved a deep sigh, taken a sip of whisky. Impatient with her own weakness. It wasn't something she had ever intended to give in to--and she bloody well hadn't, except in her mind, but there were ways in which that felt like the first step down a very long and very crooked road. It was easy to imagine Annie willing, as eager to give pleasure as Jean was to receive it... but she knew far too well that this scenario was all fantasy and wish fulfillment, projection of her own filthy desires. No better than a man. Than the men she had known.

There was no magical release for her.

Maybe someday she'd meet the right man, in the right circumstances. Or a woman, she knew herself well enough to admit that. Someone she could relate to as an equal, share a drink and a flat and a bed, but not a workplace. Oh no. Maybe he'd be in construction, or he'd own a shop. His life would be entirely separate from hers and they'd chat about their days at work without ever being moved by the other's plight. And while Sam and Annie seemed fair on the way to making a go of it, she doubted the wisdom. She couldn't stop seeing the big picture, all the repercussions, and even if they never befell her she couldn't stop imagining them. Kept that shite to herself, though.

Drank her whisky, thought her own sodding thoughts, and kept an eye on her team. And if her gaze lingered longer on Annie's firm arse, well, she wasn't the only one in CID with that habit. There would never be any late night office assignations on Jean Hunt's watch. The companionable whisky with her DI, though... now that was something entirely different.


End file.
